One More Miracle
by Lynn Heartnet
Summary: For a moment John was too shocked for rational thought, and he figured that Sherlock was a ghost or an angel. After all he was pale enough to be a ghost and beautiful enough to be an angel. A continuation of the two part story Dead, Defamed Drunken-part of the Stories From Baker Street collection.
1. Back Again

**As per your requests here is One More Miracle. If you haven't already make sure you read the two Dead, Defamed, Drunken stories included in Stories From Baker Street. They come prior to this, and you'll need them to understand what's going on. Enjoy!**

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"One more miracle?"  
John had weathered battles, had explosions rattle his teeth, he'd been shot at and shot at others, he'd seen things that most people would never see in their whole lives in just the past few years.  
He'd never seen anything more surprising than a bedraggled Sherlock Holmes seemingly rising out of a grave.  
For a moment John was too shocked for rational thought, and he figured that Sherlock was a ghost or an angel. After all he was pale enough to be a ghost and beautiful enough to be an angel.  
He wanted to go up to him, rest his hands on his shoulders and check for wings. He wanted to make sure he wouldn't vanish as soon as he turned around. He wanted to spend the rest of his life looking at him and touching him so that he wouldn't disappear.  
"S-Sher...?" He stuttered, taking a hesitant step forward. Sherlock was less hesitant but not by much. He walked up to John until they were standing a few inches apart. John reached out a shaking hand, pressed it against Sherlock's shoulder. When his hand didn't go straight through him, he ran it through Sherlock's dark curls and then let it frame his cheek.  
"...real?" Was all he could choke out. Sherlock knew what he meant though and he nodded, his throat going dry.  
"I'm real." He said, putting his hand on John's.  
That's when John's hand fell from Sherlock's face, formed a fist and punched the unfortunate detective in the jaw.

John almost felt bad about the dark bruise forming on Sherlock's cheek...almost.  
The bruise was visible from where Sherlock sat, pouting, on the couch. After he'd punched the man out, John had practically dragged him back to his flat. Now Sherlock sulked in silence while John did what any Brit in a traumatic situation would do: he made tea.  
He pressed a warm mug into one of Sherlock's hand, and an ice pack into the other. Then he sat down on the chair opposite the couch with his tea and stared.  
Sherlock pressed the ice to his cheek, his eyes flicking from his feet to John's face. Finally he found the will to speak.  
"...are you alright?" he asked, worried about the distant look in John's eyes.  
"...No." John sighed, putting his untouched mug of tea on the table so he could put his head in his hands. "No, Sherlock I am not alright."  
Sherlock dropped the ice pack and went to stand in front of John, looking down at him with concern.  
"I'm sorry." He said.  
"Somehow that just doesn't cover it." John chuckled without mirth and looked up at Sherlock.  
"I know." Sherlock knelt in front of John's chair, putting his hands on John's knees. "There was...no other way to keep you safe."  
"Yeah, so you've said."  
"He would have killed you."  
"I thought you killed you."  
They sat in silence for a bit, each man trying to avoid the other's eyes.  
"Sherlock..." John sighed. "I thought that you jumped off a building. That you talked yourself down to me in order to keep me from mourning you. That you couldn't live anymore." John's eyes filled with tears and he put a hand in front of them to hide it. "Sherlock it was bad enough that you were dead...but I couldn't do anything to stop it...you wanted to..."  
Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders, he wasn't good with emotional responses and was unsure of what to do. All he knew is that he needed John to be well, he needed him to stop crying.  
"I'm not dead." was all he could say.  
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, practically pulling the detective into his lap.  
"I know. Sod."  
John pulled back, his face losing all signs of sorrow and being replaced with the face of a soldier.  
"So. What now?" He asked.  
"All I need to do is catch Moran. Then I can come home." Sherlock replied.  
"Alright then." John gave a determined grin. "Tell me what you need me to do."


	2. Against The World

John wasn't exactly done being angry. Or relieved, or shocked, or scared. In fact just looking at Sherlock invoked so many different emotions in him that he tried to avert his eyes whenever Sherlock was near. It was a real pity he couldn't look at Sherlock because the dark bruise on his cheek really would have brought a smile to the doctor's face. He'd earned that really. Dramatic sod.

Sherlock's pace was hard for John to match even on a day like this when the pain in his leg had become a numb throbbing. The tall man marched on in front of John while the doctor hurried to keep up.

"We'll set up at Baker Street for now. After all Moran does expect me to come back here eventually. That makes it easy enough to set a trap for him of course." Sherlock ranted as he walked. His hood was pulled up over his curly hair in an attempt to disguise his face.

"I don't think I'll be needing Mycroft's help anymore." He sneered. "I've had to sleep on his couch for a week now. I'm quite finished with that."  
John nodded, his eyes on the ground watching Sherlock's heels move further and further away.  
Sherlock turned around suddenly, his eyes looking thoughtful. Then he stopped and allowed John to catch up to him, before wrapping his hands around John's arm. Then he started walking again, this time close to John's side.

John blushed. Now that he thought about it, they hadn't really addressed the issue of what he said at Sherlock's gravesite. He'd declared his love for the detective, and it appeared that Sherlock hadn't even considered that. Should he try to start a conversation about it or...should he leave it be?

John snapped out of his reverie when he noticed that Sherlock had led him to the door of 221B. How long had it been since he'd been here?

"Well. Shall we?" Sherlock turned to John with one of his unreadable looks, and John couldn't think of anything except that he didn't want Sherlock to move his hands.  
"...Yeah...let's."

The door clicked shut behind them and they were faced with the familiar stairs that had once led to their old flat. As far as John knew Mrs. Hudson hadn't rented it out yet, in fact last time he visited she still had some of Sherlock's furniture up there as if she didn't want to move it.

Wait...Mrs. Hudson didn't know about Sherlock yet did she?  
This thought was confirmed when John heard a scream and the shatter of glass coming from the next room over. He noticed a distinct lack of Sherlock next to his side and put two and two together before running into Mrs. Hudson's flat.

Sherlock was there, his hands up in a calming gesture. Mrs. Hudson was trembling, her eyes on Sherlock.

"Is that...you?" She asked, inching closer to Sherlock and putting a hand on his cheek.

"Yes." Sherlock said calmly, although John thought he saw some concern in the detective's eyes. Once you threw a man out a window several times for someone you can't pretend you don't care for them.

John had to give the landlady credit, she certainly recovered faster then he did. In one swift movement

she had kissed both of Sherlock's cheeks and wrapped him in a hug.  
"Oh of course it's you! I should have known you wouldn't go out like that!" She laughed with happy tears in her eyes. Then she added to John: "Too full of himself for that."  
John chuckled and gave a small nod, Sherlock appeared to ignore the entire thing all together. The wheels in his head were turning again as he looked at Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson. John and I are going to go up to our old flat. I must talk to you later though. Wait for me here?" He asked with that same old Holmes confidence. She nodded with a smile and then watched as her Baker Street boys ascended the stairs like they used to all those years ago.

"So then what's the plan?" John asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"Hmm? Don't worry about it." Sherlock replied passively. The detective always held his cards close to his vest until he was ready for his plans to unfold, even his staunchest ally never knew what he was up to.

Sherlock leapt into action drawing the dusty curtains over the windows and then studying the room at great length, pacing about and peering at things that he had once found commonplace. John was content watching this for a few moments but soon that question began bubbling up inside of him once again and he just had to ask.

"Sherlock...about earlier...when I still thought you were dead and I was talking..." He murmured.

Sherlock froze and straightened up, turning around to face John. He could see the doctor's face growing nervous, almost scared. What was he afraid of? Losing him? Preposterous.

"I...You can forget it if you'd like." John suggested, considering Sherlock's posture he figured the detective wasn't exactly interested.

"John." Sherlock ceased his investigating and walked up, placing his pale hand on John's. "I am not one for expressing how I feel, but being on the chase with you again feels more incredible than any high." John rolled his eyes involuntarily at the mention of a high but let him finish.

"Isn't this how it's always been? Isn't this how it's always supposed to be? You and me against the world. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson." Sherlock let his hand slip around John's and gave it a slight squeeze. "There is no one else in the world even remotely as interesting and admirable as you. I wouldn't have anyone else, and I wouldn't forget."


	3. The Chase

**So in case you didn't get it already I stole that "against the world" line from the trailer BBC put out awhile ago. I just couldn't resist!**

**Also while working on this chapter the website had an error and I lost a good half hour's worth of work. I had to rewrite the whole damn thing. Needless to say I was not pleased, I hope that does not reflect in the quality of my work. Enjoy!**

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John was freezing, he could see his breath in the air. He shivered and leaned against Sherlock.  
"I don't like this." He muttered. Sherlock didn't reply, his eyes were glued to the window across the street which led into 221B.

The abandoned room that Sherlock and John had procured was covered in a thick layer of dust, and the extent of the furniture was two crates and the tarp that covered them. It was behind these crates that Sherlock and John crouched, awaiting an assassin.

"I don't like putting Mrs. Hudson in harm's way like this." John elaborated. By this of course he meant Mrs. Hudson's key role in Sherlock's latest plan.

At this moment Mrs. Hudson was crouch in front of Sherlock's armchair, reaching up ever so often to adjust the dummy they had made out of a broom and a mannequin head which they had strategically placed a curly black wig on top of. Sherlock planned for Moran to see the dummy Sherlock and rush up to the abandoned building they were currently staking out, so John and Sherlock could ambush him.

"Mrs. Hudson is perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and she can be a right terror when she needs to be. She'll be fine, John." Sherlock replied.  
John groaned and fell silent again, trying to ignore the cold.

Ten minutes of waiting later, the assassin still hadn't shown up.

"How long are we going to wait here?" John asked, teeth chattering. Sherlock furrowed his brow, his eyes full of irritation.  
"Patience, John." He replied.  
John sighed and tried to stretch out his legs. Even though he knew the pain was all in his head, that didn't stop his limp from growing worse in cold weather. He gave a small groan of pain, which did not go unnoticed by the world's greatest detective.

Sherlock pulled John closer so that the doctor was nearly sitting on his lap and leaning against his chest. Then he reached for John's leg, working against the muscles with his thumbs to loosen them and ease the pain.  
"Here." He said simply.  
"Uh...thank you." John blushed.  
"I don't understand. He should be here by now." Sherlock muttered as he worked.  
"Don't get too jumpy." John replied.  
"No...John he was supposed to be here by now..." Sherlock leapt up, sending John sprawling to the floor. He ran to the window and searched the road below. John cursed and stood up, following Sherlock to the window.  
"John he knows. I don't know how but he knows." He growled furiously and began pacing about the room. "Then..."

Sherlock felt a cold chill and turned back around to look at John.

"Then...?" John asked, completely unaware of red dot that had just appeared on the back of his head.  
"John get away from the window!" Sherlock yelled, leaping onto John and pushing him into the ground just in time for a bullet to come crashing through the window to splinter the floorboards.  
"Jesus...fuck!" John exclaimed, sitting up and leaning against the wall for support. Sherlock ignored him, staring at the place the bullet had struck the floor, the bullet that had John's name on it.  
"He...knew." He closed his eyes and tilted his head backwards, frustration and anger filling his body. He'd been played, somehow Moran had figured them out and now they were back to being hunted. Sherlock did not like to be prey.

"Sherlock we need to get out of here." John hissed, grabbing the detective's wrist. "He'll have the exits covered, now would be a great time for you to think of something clever."  
Sherlock thought for a moment and then shook his head.  
"No..." He said. "He's gone."  
"Are you crazy?" John shouted. "He has us cornered and he knows it!"  
"No, he has left, John." Sherlock stood up despite John's protests and stood in front of the window with his arms spread wide. For a moment John could imagine in perfect clarity a bullet piercing Sherlock's chest and staining his white shirt and pale skin with crimson. In that split second he pictured losing Sherlock for a second time.

Nothing happened.

John let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding and relaxed so that his head fell back against the wall.  
"Where...where did he go?" He managed to say.  
"Now that we know where he is it isn't entertaining anymore. He likes the chase, he doesn't want it to be easy." Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him up, still ranting. "He blames me for killing his master, he wants to make my death personal and painful. He wants the chase."  
"We'll catch him though." John's statement seemed more like a question than any sort of reassurance.  
"Oh yes. He made one simple error and that's what's going to bring him to us." Sherlock smirked, staring at the hole in the floor.  
"What's that, then?" John asked. Sherlock turned back to John, wearing the same self satisfied grin he wore whenever he had found a complicated problem to keep himself busy with.

"No one loves the chase more than me. Not even him."


	4. Runaways

John tossed and turned in his bed, wide awake.

With a sigh he sat up, staring at his unfamiliar surroundings. Sherlock and him had been all over London that night laying fake trails for the assassin, until finally booking a room at a hotel. Sherlock had run in and drawn the curtains over all the windows, then begun pacing and muttering to himself as he thought.

John knew the mood the detective was in, he was too busy plotting to be bothered. So the doctor had sat down on the bed to rest his weary legs, and began cleaning his gun. If he was lucky and Sherlock had everything covered he wouldn't need it, but he worried about the pale man that had so recently come back from the dead.

He wasn't losing him again.

Eventually Sherlock turned to John and informed him that he was going to sit on the balcony and keep an eye out so that John could get some sleep.

He was still out there at this moment, John could just barely see him through a crack in the curtains. He could also make out a wisp of cigarette smoke but he was going to let that slide just this once.

John turned on his side and closed his eyes, going for one more attempt at sleep. When he was still awake five minutes later he pushed the blankets back and headed for the balcony door.

"You should be inside." Sherlock's voice rumbled as John walked out into the night air.

"And leave you out here to get shot at alone?" John shivered, suddenly wishing he hadn't left his warm bed. "Why don't you come inside?"

"John..." Sherlock muttered and the doctor moved to lean against his side. "I've thought about this, and no mater how many times I turn it over in my head I put you in danger trying to stop Moran."

"I've been in danger before, Sherlock." John reminded him. "I'm a soldier."

"So is Moran. He's dangerous, second only to Moriarty himself." Sherlock turned to look at John and in the night his eyes seemed to reflect light like the eyes of a cat.

"Stop worrying and come get some sleep. We're safe for now." John pulled lightly on Sherlock's arm, coaxing the detective indoors. "We can start fearing for our lives tomorrow."

Sherlock curled up around John in the bed, his thin limbs embracing the soldier tightly. John could feel the detective's lips brush against his shoulder. He wished that they could just stay in that moment, two runaways sleeping in a strange room. He wished they didn't have to wake up and face a murderer.

In the morning Sherlock was off too search for signs of Moran and to secure the perimeter around the hotel, John was left at the room with his gun and instructions to stay away from the windows and doors. John knew that Sherlock was still coddling him and keeping him away from the danger, but John didn't have the energy to argue after a sleepless night.

He kept busy watching horrible shows on tv until he got bored. Thinking he'd shave he went off to the bathroom.

"God I look awful..." He muttered to himself, referring to the dark circles under his weary eyes. "After this I should make Sherlock retire." He chuckled.

Footsteps.

John froze, he knew he'd heard something in the room. Was it Sherlock returning? John peered into the mirror, wondering if he could see who it was in the reflective surface.

That's when the cord was slipped around his throat and his attacker began starving him of oxygen.


	5. Sentiment

**Ten imaginary internet points to anyone who can name the author Sherlock quotes in this chapter!**

**I hope to write one last chapter after this one just to wrap everything up, so this is the penultimate update!**

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Colonel Sebastian Moran was a hunter.

He'd written two highly praised books on the subject, and he'd earned fame after crawling down a drain in pursuit of a wounded man-eating tiger.

He was the kind of man that could only enjoy life while he was stealing it from others. After being discharged from the army (in a much less honorable way than his foil John Watson) he tried to fill the void with the hunting of both animals and men alike. That was when he caught the attention of James Moriarty.

If Sebastian was a hunter then Jim Moriarty was a natural predator, with an animal ferocity that Sebastian respected. When he'd been offered a job to shadow the criminal mastermind and take out whatever targets the man desired, he accepted without a thought, and through the years Moriarty became the most important thing in his life.

Colonel Sebastian Moran was a hunter.

Though he favored the gun, a hunter must be adaptable. So when Sherlock Holmes slipped away from the hotel room where he'd thought to have lost the hunter, he decided that a more intimate killing would be the best way to dispatch the detective's most treasured partner. After what happened on that rooftop, after watching his master's brilliant plan fail to kill the detective but succeed in taking Moriarty's own life...Moran was ready to make Holmes feel that same desperation of losing the only other human he was able to connect with.

Once John Watson was dead, Sebastian would wait over his cold corpse for the detective to return before finishing him off as well...

It was child's play getting into the hotel room, carrying a piece of wire thin enough to be concealed but strong enough to kill. He waited on the balcony, crouching just out of sight while the army doctor flipped through tv channels with a bored expression. Finally when John stood and walked to the bathroom, Moran entered the room.

He made his way silently through the room, readying his weapon.

_The death of a soldier at the hands of another soldier. Finally we are at war again._ He thought to himself. Then he wrapped the cord around John's neck and began to strangle him.

John instantly began to struggle, kicking out his legs and trying to force his weight against Moran to make him stumble. Moran didn't give out, still holding the cord tight around John's throat. The doctor clawed at his attacker's hands, desperate for air. His vision began to blur and he was starting to go limp when his savior burst into the room.

Sherlock Holmes, holding a revolver and looking very very angry, came running from where he'd been hiding in the hallway outside their room. He smacked the weapon against Moran's head, causing the assassin to fall to the floor, relinquishing his hold on John's air supply. The doctor collapsed to his knees, choking and spluttering.

"Well, I have to say I'm disappointed." Sherlock huffed, pointing the gun at Moran's head. The assassin fixed him in a glare that could have been deadly. "There you were, showing us how clever you were only to fall for some last minute plan like that?" Sherlock smirked slightly.

"Allow me to illuminate your mistakes for you, first of all you got overconfident. You had us trapped but you felt you could kill us at anytime, anywhere. You thought you had us on the run, which I was happy to allow you to believe. Your second mistake was aiming at John." Sherlock shook his head and grabbed Moran by his hair, dragging him closer and pressing the gun against his temple. "You showed your hand with that one. You showed me that you cared enough for Moriarty to make me feel that same kind of pain, the pain of losing someone dear. You showed me exactly who you would kill first and you gave me the perfect opportunity for a trap."

John was taking in ragged breaths, his oxygen starved brain was still racing and trying to catch up to the present. He was reliving that morning in his head, Sherlock briefing him on the new plan: _"He'll think I've left. Just wait around a bit and then go into the other room, he'll attack you. Be careful, John. I will be there shortly, I'm only going to be out in the hall."_

"Curious thing, sentiment." Sherlock commented, his voice deepening with anger and triumph. "It was your downfall but my advantage. You let your sentiment blind you, but I allowed mine to fuel my desire to defeat you. John, what say we bind him with the same tool he wanted to use against us?"

John nodded and searched about on the floor for the cord that had nearly strangled him. He brought it over and started tying Moran's hands behind his back while Sherlock stepped back, keeping the gun trained on Moran.

"When you're done with that, why not give our old friend Lestrade a call?" Sherlock shrugged. "He can pick up a trained killer and learn that 'the reports of my death have been highly exaggerated' all at once."

"Must I do everything?" John sighed, teasingly, feeling oddly calm for someone who'd nearly been killed and was now standing inches from his near-killer.

"Very sorry, dear." Sherlock smirked in response. "Unless you want to hold the gun?"

John chuckled and pulled out his phone, not quite sure how the next few hours were going to go. Surely there'd be questions asked, and he just wasn't ready for that. After being strangled, he was not in the mood for explaining Sherlock's sudden reappearance to the world of the living to the Yard's finest. Maybe he'd go home and leave Sherlock to do the talking...

One phone call later Lestrade and his fellow officers were dragging Moran away in handcuffs, and considering looking for a way to do the same to Sherlock. Though Lestrade's initial reaction had been joy and relief at seeing the detective alive, he was now debating whether or not to punch him out.

John, who had had enough excitement for one day and far too much considering his sleep deprived night, was leaning against the wall watching the lights on the top of the police cars cast colors on the street around them. His eyelids were drooping and his mouth was opening in a yawn by the time Sherlock appeared silently at his side.

"Home?" He suggested, wrapping his hands around John's arm to hold him up.

"Sounds lovely." John nodded, faintly aware of Lestrade shouting: "Oi! I'm not done with you!" and also not caring that he was.

Sherlock hailed a cab and John fell asleep on the ride home, his head on Sherlock's shoulder. The detective had to rouse him softly when they'd reached their destination, and he helped him up 221B's stairs and onto the couch. Then the detective sat next to him, and somehow managed to wrap his arms around John and rest his head on the doctor's chest.

"John..." He said after a moment's silence. "Does this mean you're mine now?"

John shook his head and laughed. The man had memorized every known fatal poison in the world but he had no clue how to ask to be someone's boyfriend.

"No, if anything your ass belongs to me now." John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. Then they both fell asleep right there together.


End file.
